You've Been Served
by los.kav
Summary: The Captain played a prank on Tintin; Tintin gets his own back. Cue  the series of escalating practical jokes.  Modern!Tintin; AU; No Romance/Slash; comedy; may contains traces of bromance and supreme childishness.
1. Best Served Cold

**Best Served Cold**

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><p>It was a long drive, and the Captain's radio wasn't working. He wasn't sure exactly <em>how<em> it had broken – well, he'd bashed it in a fit of pique during rush-hour traffic one evening, but he was sure he hadn't hit it hard enough to break it – but the fact remained that it _was_ broken. Only the C.D. player worked: the radio only played static.

The Captain hated driving without music or somebody to talk to. He wasn't a man given to pointless introspection, and almost three hours alone with his thoughts would be pitch-fork purgatory for him. Usually, he'd just tune the radio to a classic rock music station and let the soundtrack of his youth accompany him, but now he was reliant on C.D.s.

In this respect, Tintin had been a treasure: he'd gone through the Captain's C.D. collection and burnt a load of his favourite songs on to three blank C.D.s: more than enough to cover the trip out to Antwerp and back.

Chester was in port. The Captain had booked into a hotel, to make sure he got a full night of hell-raising in before his old friend shipped back out to Blighty. Cheered by such thoughts, and having left the traffic choked city centre behind at last and now speeding along the motorway, the Captain reached over and pushed the first C.D. into the slot.

A couple of seconds of silence before Tintin's voice kicked in.

"Captain! I meant to thank you for changing the voice-mail message on my phone. Very thoughtful of you. You have been served: enjoy your drive."

_We're no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I!_

"What the hell is this?" the Captain wondered aloud.

_A full commitment's what I'm thinking of, you wouldn't get this from any other guy!_

"Hang on. Hang _on! _I know this song…"

_I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling; gotta make you understand!_

"Is that _Rick Astley?"_

_Never gonna give you up! Never gonna let you down!_

"Oh! Very funny, Tintin. Nice try." The Captain rolled his eyes and skipped on to the next song.

_We're no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I!_

_A full commitment's what I'm thinking of, you wouldn't get this from any other guy!_

"Oh, come on!" the Captain groaned. He skipped forward again.

_We're no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I!_

_A full commitment's what I'm thinking of, you wouldn't get this from any other guy!_

"What the hell!" He frantically clicked forward, searching for any other song on the C.D. And then he pulled over and tried the second C.D. And then the third. By the time he'd wasted fifteen minutes listening to the same two lines of the same song over, and over, and over again, he had to admit that he'd been served. Hard.

Tintin would pay for this…


	2. Best Served Ice Cold

**Best Served Ice Cold**

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><p>It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and Tintin was just coming back from a long walk. He'd been around part of Marlinspike Hall's luxurious grounds, down along the back of the house to the far meadow, where Snowy had been able to drink from the river that bordered their land. To amuse himself, Tintin had brought along a hollow, light-weight plastic ball, and had spent a good half an hour just sitting on the banks of the river, now low and sluggish in the long summer, throwing it into the water for Snowy to chase. Snowy loved it: it was good fun that helped cool him off. Tintin liked it because the swimming wore Snowy out quickly.<p>

Now, as they neared the house, Snowy put forward a final burst of strength and took off at a tired run, making for the low barrel of water at the side of the garage. The French windows of the back sitting room were open, Tintin noticed as he drew closer to the garage, and inside he could see Nestor dusting the china ornaments that stood on the mantelpiece and coffee table. It was his ritual: every Sunday it was brass in the morning, china in the afternoon.

The door of the garage was open and the sound of music – early U2, _The Joshua __Tree_ was the album, Tintin thought – came from inside. This was another Sunday ritual: the _Afternoon Tinker_, where the Captain broke out his toolbox and gave something _The Once Over_. Sometimes it was the ride-along lawnmower, or the strimmer, and other times it was the boiler, but today it was his car. He'd put in a brand new car stereo as Tintin was beginning his walk and no doubt he was giving the engine a 'quick tune-up' while he still had his tools out.

As predicted, the bonnet of the car stood open and the Captain was bent over, stretched out as he reached in to tighten something at the back of the engine. The driver's side door was open and all the windows were rolled down, and on the grimy metal cabinet where the Captain kept his tools, the hand-held vacuum cleaner stood in its charger, testament to the fastidiousness with which the Captain approached his car.

The song _With or Without You_ was playing, and the Captain was singing along in his surprisingly fine voice. "Hey!" Tintin called. The Captain jumped at the unexpected intrusion, and narrowly avoided smacking his head off the car bonnet.

"Ah, there you are," he said when he looked over his shoulder and saw Tintin. "Give us a minute, will you? Have a good walk?"

"Mm. The weather's glorious today."

"It surely is. _Blistering barnacles! Turn, why don't you? Turn!_ Any plans for the day?"

"No. I was thinking of getting the sun-loungers out."

"Ooh! Good idea!" The Captain looked back at him with a grin, clearly pleased at the idea. "We could get a pizza for lunch. It's too hot to cook. What do you think?"

"Ugh. It's too hot to eat!" To emphasise his point, Tintin yawned suddenly. He was tired after his walk and looking forward to lying out with a magazine.

"I suppose you're right," the Captain said agreeably. "We can have something later, when it's cooler. And I happen to know that Nestor bought a pack of ice-lollies when he was doing the shopping yesterday. And there's cans of Coke in the fridge."

"Oh, nice!"

The Captain straightened up. "He actually brought one out to me a few minutes ago, before he started his precious dusting. You wouldn't open it for me, would you?" He held his hands out, showing Tintin his grease and oil stained fingers.

"Sure," said Tintin. "Of course." The can of Coke was standing on the far end of the metal cabinet, beside the hulking paint-mixing machine the Captain had bought in a fit of impulsiveness a while ago. As Tintin reached for the can the Captain, whistling along to the song, wiped his hands on a grimy rag and stood back out of the way.

Tintin popped the tab.

The drink exploded.

Tintin stood, shell-shocked, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise, as sticky, ice-cold, foaming cola ran from his face and hair.

"Wh…wha'?" he managed to say.

"You got served!" the Captain said smugly, before dissolving into laughter.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Started writing these for the fun of it. Updates will be pretty erratic, but the pranks will get bigger and better.


	3. Best Served Minty Fresh

**Best Served Minty fresh**

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><p>Captain Haddock slept. Moonlight shone in through a narrow crack in the curtains, bathing a small strip of the room in an almost-eerie white light that cast a tinge of blue into the shadows. Unbeknownst to the Captain, a dark figure crept along the hallway. The door opened silently and slowly as the figure gained entry and slunk along the wall, carefully dodging a pair of shoes that had been tossed onto the floor over by the dresser and a voluminous pair of underpants that had fallen from the edge of the wash-basket and lay across the floor like a cotton trap.<p>

The shadow slipped into the en-suite bathroom. There was a very slight noise – akin to something small being picked up and replaced by something else of similar size – before the shadow emerged scant moments later and took leave, creeping back to whence it came.

As the door closed quietly behind the shadow, the Captain snorted and turned over, oblivious to the dark machinations that had taken place that night.

**x**

Snowy catapulted onto the still-sleeping form of the Captain. The Captain woke with a startled cry and instinctively pushed Snowy away. It was the morning routine: Tintin always woke before the Captain and let Snowy out for a wee. When the dog was finished, he was always give a dental stick – a chewy dog treat that were affectionately called 'teef cleanies' – which he always ate in the Captain's bed. And Snowy always – _always – _catapulted himself onto the Captain's stomach.

"Good morning," Tintin called from the hallway. He always had to open the Captain's door for Snowy.

"Muh." The Captain rolled onto his side and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Can I leave Snowy here with you? I want to take a shower before breakfast."

"Yuh." Snowy had finished eating his teef-cleanie and was now lying stretched out beside the Captain, licking the man's hand.

"Thanks, Captain."

"Guh." He heard the soft _click_ as Tintin shut the door behind him. These were dangerous times: Snowy was such a soft, fluffy, _comfortable_ sort of dog that it was very easy to just fall back asleep together. It took all of the Captain's willpower to ignore the dog's wiles and push back the duvet. Snowy combated this by simply rearranging himself so that he was lying across the Captain's chest, pinning him to the bed.

Every morning the same damned thing.

With a groan of protest the Captain sat up. Snowy slipped off him and immediately staked a new claim by curling up in the warm spot behind the man. Suitably freed, the Captain swung his legs out of bed and got up. Snowy fell asleep.

The Captain staggered to the bathroom and relieved himself. When he was finished, he washed his hands and took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror.

It was hard to believe that his youth was behind him. Every day it seemed that there was a new wrinkle or a deeper line etched into his face. Where was that carefree youth gone? Where was the lad that was forever chasing girls and trying to score a cheeky kiss? Where was the lad who had to hide his cigarettes from his mum and wear buckets of cheap aftershave to mask the smell of the smoke? Where was the carefree young man who had laughed at the adults around him, and swore never to be like _them?_

With such contemplative thoughts to ruminate upon, the Captain broke wind loudly and burst out laughing.

_Well, he's in there somewhere!_

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the Captain grabbed his toothbrush and turned on the tap. Of course his skin was rough: he'd spent his life on the sea! There were weeks spent under blazing sun or freezing moon; days spent being battered by storms. Nobody had _moisturised_. Not even Chester – who was gay – had _moisturised_.

They laughed at young men today, with their manicures and exfoliation and _moisturiser_. Blistering barnacles, he still remembered times of sailing through such cold that simply _smiling _was enough to make the skin on his face crack and bleed!

No, he was fine. Sure, he was a little… _worn, _but that was life. He paused and squirted a blob of toothpaste onto his toothbrush and, still smiling, started to brush his teeth. That's what you did: you lived. You couldn't stay young forever. His wrinkles, his lines, his scars… They were proof that he had _lived…_

… This toothpaste tasted odd. Sort of… burning. Burning at his tastebuds and the sensitive inner lining of his cheeks. He took a look at the tube.

_Five Alarm Hot Sauce. _

He took a deep breath from the shock.

Which turned out to be a bit of a mistake.

**x**

In his shower, Tintin paused as the first of the shouting and swearing reached him. He grinned, satisfied, and continued washing his hair.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> if anyone replaces your toothpaste with hot sauce do not - that's _**do not**_ - take a deep breath. That shit _burns_.


	4. Best Served With A Side Of Mouthwash

**Best Served With A Side Of Mouthwash**

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><p>Captain Haddock had tasted humiliation, and it tasted an awful lot like hot sauce. Tintin had crossed a line: a man's toothpaste was his own, thundering typhoons, and a man should be free to brush his teeth how and when he liked, without fear of sabotage and burnt taste buds, which made everything he ate for a week afterwards taste like old socks.<p>

It had taken the better part of the afternoon, but he had done it. He was about to take his revenge.

"Toothpaste, is it, lad?" he muttered to himself. "Well, you shall have all you want of it."

Down the way from Cutts the Butcher, just off Main Street in Mulinsart village, there was a small bakery called Buns-A-Poppin'. It had been there for years – since the sixties at least – but before it became Buns-A-Poppin' it had been another bakery. Not a week went by without someone from Marlinspike Manor, either the Captain or Nestor or Tintin, popping into Buns-A-Poppin' for a treat.

Oh, and what treats they were! Eclairs and cream cakes and jam tarts and sponge cakes… The bread was baked daily and was always fresh. And such an assortment! Bread from all over the world: barrel rolls and crusty loaves and naan bread… bread with herbs in, organic bread, and even bread suitable for coeliacs. They did a gluten-free line that shipped all over Belgium.

But Tintin's favourite was a Buns-A-Poppin' original recipe: the Ginger Pie. It wasn't a large cake – about twice the size of a Jaffa Cake – but it was unique and very tasty. Fresh, buttery cream between two soft ginger cakes. They came in a pack of six, and the Captain had once seen Tintin eat an entire pack in one sitting (although he'd sorely regretted it about an hour later).

It had been easy, the Captain discovered, to separate the two ginger cakes. The cream was very, very fresh and very soft. He'd bought them as soon as they came out of the oven and got to them before they'd had time to settle and harden.

It was also easy to scrape the cream off the ginger cakes. The Cat had helped him with that part by greedily destroying the creamy evidence. She'd even stuck around for a while afterwards, displaying the most amount of loyalty she had ever shown for her owner thus far. Mind you, once she'd realised there was no more cream coming her way she'd buggered off and Nestor had taken her place.

The Captain had chosen to do this in the kitchen because it would be the last place Tintin would ever look for him. Granted, Tintin wasn't at home at the moment, but if he were to come back early and catch the Captain, all would have been in vain. Plus, it was cosy in the kitchen beside the large range. Nestor took a seat and stared at the Captain.

"Er, sir?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, Nestor?" The Captain didn't bother looking up.

"May I ask… Sir, what are you doing?"

It was here that the Captain ran into some trouble: the toothpaste was too hard to spread and he broke one of the delicate, still-warm cakes. "Damn and blast!" he shouted, slamming the cake down on to the table and scattering crumbs and chunks of ginger sponge everywhere. "What the blazes d'ya think I'm doing?"

"Well, it looks like you're trying to put toothpaste onto cakes," Nestor said delicately. The Captain had to admire the man's formal, polite demeanour in the face of such strangeness.

"There's your answer then," the Captain said, staring at the tube of toothpaste and willing it to melt a bit.

"I… Hmmm." Nestor closed his eyes and counted to ten. He'd learnt that things were rarely boring around here _because_ of how weird the Captain was. "It seems to me, sir," he said at last as he stood up to make his tactical withdrawal from the odd situation, "that if you put the toothpaste – tube and all – into a pot of boiling water, you may achieve the desired affect."

The Captain waited until the butler was gone before trying it.

He was only bloody right.

**x**

Tintin came home about an hour later, dragging his feet in exhaustion. He collapsed gratefully onto a soft chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. "You wouldn't _believe_ the day I've had," he said wearily.

The Captain put his newspaper down and gave his young friend his full attention. "What happened?"

"That car broke down. _Again._ I had to get it towed. The shocks have gone. By the time I'd managed to get into Brussels I'd missed my first appointment – I had to reschedule it for two weeks time, which of course will be too late."

"Of course."

"My second appointment was late, which made me late for my third appointment. And I spent the rest of the day chasing down a bad lead that went nowhere."

"You poor thing," the Captain said sympathetically. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. The plate of Ginger Pies stared at him accusingly. Steeling his resolve, he picked them up. "Here," he said soothingly as he held out the toothpaste-filled cakes, "cheer yourself up with a Ginger Pie."

"Aw, thanks Captain!" Tintin looked pleased as he picked up a cake and took a huge bite.

Revenge, the Captain thought, tasted sweet.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This also works with Oreos and Butterfly buns. Also, I really enjoy writing for Captain Haddock. What a gem of a character.


	5. Best Served First Thing In the Morning

**Best Served First Thing in the Morning**

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><p>A desecration. That's what it was: a desecration. To meddle with such lovely baked goods; to take away the cream and fill them with toothpaste? To allow an unsuspecting person to eat such a thing? To allow them, taste-buds tingling with expectation, with <em>promise<em>, to take a big bite and chew? To ruin – yes, sir, _ruin_ – such a thing, with tawdry japes and chicanery?

No, sir. This will not stand, sir. This will not stand.

_This_ was war.

Tintin opened the window.

As expected, the alarm went off. Marlinspike was a large house, and the alarm system was extensive. And when it was triggered it was bloody loud. It had to be: it had to be heard all over the extensive house.

Tintin moved along the hall so he could get a better view. There were a tense few seconds, filled only by the ringing of the alarm. Then there were other noises: a muffled shout; a thud as a body struggled out of bed, feet tangled in the blanket; footsteps as someone ran to the door… Tintin watched as the door was wrenched open.

**x**

The Captain sat up with a shout. He had been dragged from his dreams by the scream of the alarm system. It was loud. Oh, _thunder_, it was loud! Still blinking as panic set in, he jumped out of bed and tumbled over the draping duvet. He cursed loudly as he hurried to the door and pulled it open.

He vaguely registered Tintin, a huge grin plastered over his face, through the distorted field that stood behind the door. His feet, still moving, propelled him through the doorway as his brain wondered why his vision was so disturbed. Then the cold, slithering thing hit his face.

**x**

Playing with clingfilm, Tintin decided, was fun.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> clingfilm (cellophane) fastened across a doorway, at face level. Easy and fun for all the family.


	6. Best Served After WarmUp Stretches

**Best Served After Warm-Up Stretches**

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><p>The oldies were the best. That was what these young whippersnappers always forgot: the old ones were <em>always<em> the best.

You can have your Rick-Rolls, and your toothpaste gags, and your clingfilm jokes… That was fine. Completely fine. They were funny. But they weren't as good as the old ones.

_Oh, no sir-ee bob, they're not as good,_ the Captain thought as he laid the trip-wire. _Sometimes, you have to go old-school, and really teach the youth of today something about pranks._

He looked at the tripwire.

It was big – proper rope: he wanted Tintin to see it first. He wanted Tintin to take note, to scoff… To jump over it while making fun of it.

_Yes,_ he thought as he spread the Johnson's Baby Oil in a small – yet slippery – patch on the other side of the trip wire, _the old jokes are sometimes the best. And combined, they can be brutal._

**x**

Tintin looked at the tripwire. Snowy had stopped to sniff it. The dog was bum-up, head-down, snuffling along the floor. "Pfft!" said the teenager. "That's an old one, don't you think?"

The Captain, standing on the other side of the rope grinning, nodded.

"Close," said Tintin as he hopped over the rope, "but no cig-aaarrrrgh!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Vigorous crotch-strain without warm-up exercise bloody _hurts!_

I feel like I should make a quick note on this story (by the way, you guys know that it's updated two chapters at a time, right?). I'm in the middle of a prank war. Every prank here has been done by me, or to me. Since the beginning of this story, there's been a lot of pranks pulled in my house. We get our inspiration from old pranks (like the Captain's) and new pranks (like Tintin's). And believe me: there is nothing quite like hell than getting on a train for a two hour trip and realising that every song in your iPod is Rick _freaking_ Astley. After that, this sh!t is personal, _believe _me!

What's harder than coming up with a new prank to pull on your co-pranker, is conveying physical comedy into written word. Don't believe me? Go and find a youtube video that cracks you up and then send me a PM of a written summation of that video. No links; just words. It is hella harder than you think to make physical comedy funny in the medium of written word. That's why these updates happen only once in a while. Each update takes about a month (three weeks is my best) to get right. The basis of the prank is there, but while it is funny visually, it's not so funny typed out. To make it funny in written form, I need to write it by hand; edit it; type it out; edit it again; send it to the people involved in the prank war (yes, there is more than one: I am besieged on all sides!); if they find it funny I edit it one final time and then post it here.

What bums me out is to see this story (or anything I've written) uploaded to another author's page with the names changed. That's not cool. In fact, that freaking _sucks. _Unless you've jumped over a tripwire and sprained your vagina - or cock - (or bitten into a toothpaste cake ,and opened up a shook-up can of Coke, and walked into a room where every single piece of furniture is stacked in a perfect pyramid) you don't_ know._ You just don't _know. _

**TL;DR** version: don't copy my stories, d's*

*Where "d's" is douchebags.

Ps: I'm working on _Tintin in the Democratic Republic of Congo,_ but I'm waiting for this Kony 2012 stuff to die down. And I'd like to take a note that I had _Tintin in Pari_s up and published before Facebook mentioned Kony and the invisible children.


	7. The Invisible Served

**The Invisible Served**

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><p>There were a number of things you just couldn't do to the Captain. Not a lot, mind you, but there <em>were <em>a few things that could be quite dangerous. The Captain had high blood pressure and a dicky ticker, coupled with a short temper. When his blood was up, it was _right_ up and everyone knew about it. The Captain liked to say it was because he was passionate, but Tintin believed it was because the Captain was a bad-tempered old git. He let the little things get to him (example: he banged his head) and let the big things go unnoticed (example: he banged his head because the plane he was in got hijacked and said highjackers were attempting to land said plane on a runway that was far too short and there was a good chance they were all going to die). It was as though he solidly and stubbornly refused to see the bigger picture.

Although for such a bad-tempered person, he was surprisingly sweet natured. Beneath the gruff, hard-drinking, loud-swearing exterior lay a heart of gold; a staunch supporter when nobody believed you. A man that would trek halfway across the world, more than once, for a cause he didn't believe in. A man that would willingly sacrifice his own life for that of his friend.

A man that would get up early to set up an obvious-looking tripwire, but spread baby oil on the other side of it.

A simple thing; such a simple thing.

It had happened that morning. Still yawning, Tintin had left his bedroom to let Snowy out for a morning wee. It was the same thing he did every morning. He was still only wearing the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he'd worn in bed, but at least he'd managed to slip on a pair of socks to keep his feet warm.

He'd gone into the corridor. First of all, he'd seen the Captain. That had been disconcerting by itself. The man had been standing at the top of the stairs, facing down towards Tintin. His grin had been almost maniacal: sinister. The tableau was decidedly creepy.

_Zombie? _Tintin had wondered, the thought slipping into his head unbidden. _Or maybe he's finally gone mad and flipped out. _

Then he had seen the 'tripwire'. How the hell was he supposed to miss seeing the 'tripwire'? It was made of thick, blue twine. It was more of a trip_rope._

What happened next was imprinted onto Tintin's brain, seared into the back of his eyelids. He could see it again, replaying over and over, every time he closed his eyes.

He had been smug. _Too_ smug, he realised now. _Ah, Captain! I have caught you out! You cannot out-smart me! I am greatest! I am far superior! _He had been thinking these thoughts as he stepped over the clumsy tripwire. He was invincible. He was unbreakable. He was _Tintin, _motherfu-

_Oooooooooooooo!_

His foot had slipped. He had been unprepared for such a thing. It had all happened so fast. One minute he was standing up and the next he was going _dooooooown _and there was sudden, blinding pain. He hit the ground in an impromptu splits and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Just a small explosion of early morning snot and tears.

He'd keeled over on his side, his mouth shaped into a perfect 'O' of surprise and agony, and watched through wide, bulging eyes as the Captain, his _friend_ – let's face it, his _family – _had collapsed onto his knees with laughter. He'd laughed so hard he'd ended up with a stitch in his side.

Even now, in the darkness of the closet, he could feel his cheeks burning in humiliation and his balls throbbing with the pain of remembered violence.

Yes, there were a few things you couldn't do to the Captain. Sudden, loud noises for example. Or jumping out at him unexpectedly. That sort of thing could cause a heart attack. But you could let him come to you. There was nothing in the rule book about not letting the Captain come to you.

**x**

The Captain ran a hand through his hair and whistled at his reflection. He was looking good. Although he needed a bit of hair cut. Oh well, that couldn't be helped now. He patted through his pockets, searching for his belongings. _Keys, wallet, phone… Where the hell did I leave my keys…_

He had everything else. He just needed his car keys… Where could he have left them? He thought back a few hours. He had been in the village early this morning. Ah, but he had been wearing a proper coat because it had been raining.

He went to the hall closet and opened the door.

"Boo!" said Tintin.

"Jesus!" squeaked the Captain, slamming the door shut in fright.

**x**

In the darkness, Tintin smiled. His balls would rest easy now.


	8. Night of the Living Served

**Night of the Living Dead Served**

* * *

><p>"I don't think I'll be back too late," the Captain said. He straightened his cap and patted his pockets. "Keys; wallet; phone. That's me set. Now, where did I leave my pipe?"<p>

Tintin looked up from what he was doing. "It's on the table next to your chair."

The Captain couldn't help shaking his head. The teenager cut a comical figure. He was sitting in the middle of the long couch, his shirt slightly dishevelled and with both his hands in the air, as though he were sitting at gunpoint. On his left hand, worn like a glove, was a very old sock. It had a hole in the big toe and a myriad of other, smaller holes dotted about, which looked as though they had been made by small, very sharp teeth.

It was also slightly damp, as though it had been chewed.

The reason for the poor condition of the unfortunate sock was sitting on the sofa beside Tintin. In his native language he was called Glaxkar the White: Eater of the Chickens, Destroyer of the Socks and Defiler of the Rose Bush, but the stupid humans insisted on calling him Snowy.

"You don't half torment that dog sometimes," the Captain said, amused.

"I'm not tormenting him," Tintin declared. "We're having _fun!" _His voice changed to a sugary, higher-pitched tone. "We're having _fun, _Snowy, aren't we? Yes! We're having _fun! _Sit down. _Siiiiit! _Good boy! I just want to pet you."

Snowy's ears went back. He watched, his butt hovering over the sofa cushion as he pretended to sit, his whole body shaking with excitement, as Tintin's hand – and the sock – slowly moved towards him. He was so focused, so concentrated on the sock, that the expression on his face was comical. He looked almost human. _If you looked up the word 'concentration' in the dictionary, _the Captain thought, _you'd just see a picture of Snowy's face right now. _

The sock reached Snowy's head. The dog's tail started to wag stiffly. The sock touched Snowy's head. Glaxkar the White braced himself, his muscles bunching up in preparation.

Tintin began to pet him briskly, vigorously rubbing the dog's soft, curly white fur. With a snarl, Snowy lunged, wrapping his front paws around Tintin's arm as he worried at the sock. He chomped rather than chewed, knowing that a very real human hand was inside the sock. He gummed the sock furiously until his tooth hooked on a part of the wool and he was able to get a better hold of the material.

"What are ya going to do?" Tintin asked suddenly. He stopped moving his hand and held it out steadily. "Now: you've caught it. What are you gonna do?"

Snowy settled down and sniffed at the sock before giving it a lick or two. Then he sat back and looked at Tintin expectantly, waiting for the game to continue. The Captain shook his head again – _they're both as bad as each other _– and retrieved his pipe. "Right, I'm gone. Ring me if there's a problem."

"Yup." Tintin had taken the sock off his hand and held one end of it tightly in his fist. Snowy was clinging to the other end, growling and tugging at it. "Have a good time."

"Oh, I will," the Captain promised. "Be good. And if you can't be good, be good at it."

He left then. He was meeting an old friend in Brussels. They were going to dinner so they could catch up with one another. Nestor was at his weekly bingo game in the village, with Professor Calculus.

Snowy shook his head furiously from side to side, worrying the sock viciously, and it was finally wrenched from Tintin's hand. Before he could stop Snowy, the dog had jumped away, his paws clattering against the hardwood floor as he tore from the room with his hard-won prize. Tintin sighed and let him go: he'd be back.

He always came back for more.

**x**

It was 9:30pm and Tintin was bored. There was nothing on TV and he had nothing to read. Well, actually he _did _have something to read, but he only had a few chapters left of that book and he wanted to save that for when he was in bed. He'd finish it before going to sleep. _Another exciting Friday night for me,_ he thought to himself wryly. He flicked through the channels again and half-heartedly wished that something interesting would happen. Like a bunch of gangsters suddenly descending on the house and he'd have to escape using only his wits and his very sleepy dog.

Anything to break the monotony.

Beside him, Snowy raised his head and looked around sleepily, blinking his eyes. He looked mournfully up at Tintin. Tintin returned the look. "What's wrong?"

Snowy blinked twice and put his head down with a sigh. A second later the reason for his sadness hit Tintin's nostrils. "Oh! God! _Snowy! _Did you fart? Ugh, that's awful." Snowy wagged his tail and looked back up. He looked smug, Tintin thought. It was probably the way the light hit his curls, or how his fur was arranged around his mouth, but there was a definite smug smile on his little doggy lips. "Rotten dog. What am I feeding you that smells so bad? Yuck. Hmm. I'm hungry. Do you want food, Snowy?"

Snowy cocked his head to the side. He always looked interested when Tintin talked to him. "Will we go and get something to eat?" Tintin asked. Snowy's head went to the other side. Tintin booped him gently on the nose. "Let's get you something to eat."

**x**

Snowy was easy to feed: he had a half a tin of Chum already opened, and he chomped on it willingly. Tintin was harder to feed. He stood in front of the big fridge that Nestor kept well stocked and hummed and hawed to himself. He was half-heartedly toying with the idea of making some chilli when the doorbell rang. It sounded loudly in the kitchen, like in all working mansions, and jerked him out of his reverie.

Humming to himself, he jogged along the corridor and opened the front door. There was a man in motorcycle leathers on the doorstep, his helmet on and his sleek, blue and red motorcycle purring on the gravel below. He held a black padded bag – long and wide – in his arms and he was looking at Tintin through the opened visor of his helmet. "Meat feast?" he said.

"What?" Tintin replied, puzzled.

"Got a delivery for a Mr Tintin at Marlinspike Hall," the man said. "Twelve inch Meat Feast pizza."

"I didn't order a pizza," Tintin said with a frown.

"Pull the other one."

"I didn't order it!"

The man glared at him and shook his head. "Waste of my bloody time. Who d'you think has to pay for this?"

"Wait, hang on," Tintin said quickly as the man turned on his heel. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and offered the man a €20 note. "I'll take it anyway. Keep the change." _That's dinner sorted out, _he thought to himself as he took possession of the pizza.

He shut the door behind him and opened the pizza box. The smell wafted out and his stomach growled. "Mmm!" he said happily. He'd enjoy this. He pottered around for a few minutes more, fetching a plate and getting himself a cup of tea to drink with it. When he was just sitting down to eat – with Snowy hovering anxiously nearby, sniffing the air and licking his lips – the doorbell went again. With a soft sigh of impatience, Tintin went to answer it.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," said the woman outside. She was short and brisk, and at the bottom of the steps a blue car with the artwork for a local Chinese restaurant painted on the side idled. The woman held out a paper bag to him. "€25, please."

"What?" Tintin stared at her. His brain had just gone blank.

"This is Marlinspike hall, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes…"

"And are you Mr Tintin?"

"Uh, yes…"

"Well, here's your food. That'll be €25 please."

"I didn't order any food," he explained. "I'm sorry, but I think someone's playing a prank on you. Or me," he realised. "I've just had a pizza delivered here too."

"I don't care," the woman said. "What you eat is none of my business. But you ordered a Chinese from me and here it is. You owe me €25."

"I didn't order it!" Tintin said.

"Well somebody ordered it, and they ordered it for you. I want my money."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Tintin pulled more money from his wallet and shoved it at her. He took the bag and waited impatiently while she counted his change out. "Have a nice evening," she said sweetly. He scowled as he shut the door.

"What am I going to do with this?" he wondered aloud. He wandered back into the sitting room in a daze. By now, with such temptation left under his nose, Snowy had already started eating the pizza. He had jumped up onto the coffee table and was in the process of hoovering the meaty toppings into his mouth. He looked up guilty as Tintin entered, but it still took a few extra seconds before he stopped eating.

"Well, that solves that one!" Tintin exclaimed, bemused. "Enjoy your pizza, Snowy." He opened the paper bag and examined what was inside. Duck hoisin. A tray of soft, fluffy white rice. A large tub of curry sauce. A small side-dish of prawns wrapped in crispy pancakes. A bag of popadoms.

It was his usual: it was everything he usually ordered from the take-away in the village.

He paused and thought about this, a horrible thought hitting him. "Snowy?" he asked. The dog looked up and wagged his tail. He had melted cheese and tomato sauce around his mouth. He _looked_ fine, Tintin had to admit. If someone was trying to knock Tintin out, or poison him, then the pizza hadn't been touched. Snowy had eaten all of the toppings and was making good headway with the sauce and cheese. Even the crusts had been chewed.

So who was sending Tintin's favourite pizza and take-away food to the house? And _why?_

The doorbell rang again. Tintin approached it cautiously. "Who is it?" he called, keeping the door closed.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," a man's voice called back.

Frowning and starting to feel uneasy, Tintin looked through the peephole, but all he could see was a flash of green and other very bright colours. He opened the door a crack, peered out, and then opened the door wide in shock. "What on _earth?" _he cried. The man was holding an arm-load of flowers. Tintin could see his legs and his arms around the stem of the huge bunch, but every other part of him was hidden behind the blooms and trailing wisps of Baby's Breath.

"Delivery for Mr Tintin," the man said again.

"I can see that! But I didn't order any flowers!"

"They're for you." The man simply shoved them into Tintin's arms and backed away. Tintin gasped under their weight and tried to put them down. He couldn't even see from behind them!

"I can't pay for these!" he said helplessly. "They must have cost a fortune! I don't have that sort of cash on me."

"They're paid for," the man said over his shoulder as he went down the steps to his car. "There's a card on them. I tell you what, son, someone must like you an awful lot!"

Mouth open in shock and confusion, Tintin dropped to his knees and rummaged among the blooms and stems until he found the small white envelope. He opened it and pulled out the card – a simple one with a picture of a kitten holding a rose in it's mouth – and read the inscription.

'_My dearest Tintin; you have been served. Yours – A. Haddock.' _

"Oh, you didn't," Tintin said faintly. He was kneeling there, stunned, when the sound of another approaching vehicle made him look up. A small van with the logo for Buns-A-Poppin', the village bakery, was driving up the long driveway. The van beeped at him and he could see someone waving at him. When the van stopped, he could see it was Mrs Vandenbosch herself. One of her burly sons sat in the passenger seat beside her.

As soon as the car was stopped she got out. Tintin wandered down to her, his head reeling. "Congratulations!" she said delightedly. "I'm so pleased for you! Or is the master of the house?"

"What?" he asked. He was trying to figure out what else the Captain could have ordered.

"Who does the wedding cake belong to?" Mrs Vandenbosch asked. She was an older woman with full, grey hair and thin-rimmed glasses. She reminded Tintin of a cartoon grandmother. She would have looked equally at home with a shawl and a set of knitting needles as behind the till of Buns-A-Poppin'. Although she rarely baked herself any more – the business had already been handed down to one of her sons – she was a master baker, and she would have personally made a wedding cake that was destined for such a place as Marlinspike Hall.

Tintin started laughing. He couldn't help himself. "I'm so sorry, Mrs Vandenbosch," he said. He was starting to blush with embarrassment. "There's no wedding. We don't need a wedding cake."

"What? Don't be silly! You ordered a wedding cake!"

"No, I didn't."

Mrs Vandenbosch frowned. "But my niece took the order. It's already paid for." A look of horror crossed her face. "She didn't make a mistake, did she? My niece?"

Tintin shook his head. "I suspect she didn't. I think someone's playing a trick on me. In fact, I'm sure they are."

"Someone going to help me here?" Mrs Vandenbosch's son had opened the back of the van and was trying to take the cake out.

"It'll have to go back," Tintin said apologetically.

"Oh no it wont." Mrs Vandenbosch's lips tightened. "There's nothing wrong with my cakes! I wont take it back."

"But what am I supposed to do with it!"

"What am _I _supposed to do with it? It's a wedding cake!"

"But I don't want it!"

"Are you shouting at my mother, kid?"

"No! _No. _I'm being very calm. I don't want your wedding cake. Put that back in."

"Take it out, Frank! He ordered the cake, let him have it."

"I didn't order it! I don't want it!"

"Hey! You lower your voice when you're talking to my mother!"

"Oh good grief!" Tintin rolled his eyes. "Now what's going on?"

A small red Mini was hurtling down the drive. It whizzed past them and skidded to a halt. Suddenly, the doors flew open and six clowns tumbled out, shouting and honking horns. "Happy birthday!" one of them roared, dousing Tintin with a bucket of sparkling confetti. Tintin put his head in his hands and groaned.

**x**

The clowns were arguing with the men who were trying to set up the bouncy castle by the time the paranormal investigators showed up. They were adamant that they had received a phone call two weeks ago – _two weeks ago! How long had the Captain been planning this for? – _telling them that they had permission to hold an investigation in the house for the night. They had express permission to access every room in the house. They were to set up a Ouija board in the dining room and hold a séance in Tintin's bedroom, which they had been told was the epicentre of the haunting. When Tintin took umbrage at this, and tried to explain that there was no haunting, one of the paranormal investigators took Mrs Vandenbosch's side of the argument and helped her son carry the cake up to the house. Tintin looked at the chaos around him, and just gave up. With a shrug, he followed Mrs Vandenbosch into the house, and wondered if he could eat a full wedding cake by himself.

**x**

Captain Chester laughed and smoothed his moustache. "So what are you going to send him next?"

"A stripper," the Captain declared. He took out his phone and grinned wickedly. "A _male _stripper."

* * *

><p>Happy Bank Holiday Weekend, everyone!<p> 


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